by Carl Deuker
His Wrangler is a hardtop, but with the windows down plenty of fresh air blows through. He drove out across the Aurora Bridge, to West Seattle, and down to Alki Beach. On the way we talked about nothing: the sunshine, the Seahawks, the Mariners.
He parked along the water at Alki. We walked on the pathway above the beach for a half-mile or so. Then he spotted a picnic table. "Let's sit down," he said. Puget Sound was a glittering dark blue, its islands a dark green, the sky dotted with puffy white clouds. It was an incredible day, and I couldn't have felt worse.
We sat across from each other. He had a toothpick in his mouth, and he'd chew on it a little, then take it out, and then chew on it some more. Finally he flicked it onto the beach. "That article you read? Everything in it was true. I was a screw-off, and it didn't start with the Chargers. All through high school and college, I dogged practices, was late for meetings—had no work ethic at all. None. But I was the best running back around by far, so when game time came around, the coaches found a way to get me on the field. Then I got to the pros, where there were guys as good as me. I pulled the same crap, and the Chargers got rid of me just like that." He snapped his fingers. "I couldn't believe it. Sometimes I still can't believe it.
"So I came back to Seattle, my tail between my legs. I managed to land a job on sports radio, and a few years later you were born. That was quite a moment, seeing you. I looked in your crib and I thought: He's not going to end up like me, wasting his talent.
"I know I've worked you hard all these years. Your mom says I put too much pressure on you, and I guess I do. But you're good at football, Mick. Really, really good. I don't want you to get so mad at me over this that you quit."
I shook my head. "I'm not going to quit. I love football. It's just..."
"Just what?" he said.
"It's just that I don't get why you didn't tell me earlier."
He laughed grimly. "That's easy, Mick. Everybody I see at the radio station, friends of your mom's, friends of mine, they look at me and they think: There's Mike Johnson. He could have been great. You looked at me and your eyes said: That's my dad. He is great." He paused. "I couldn't give it up."
We sat for a little longer, neither of us saying anything. Finally, he stood. "So, we're okay?"
"Yeah," I said. "We're okay."
"We'll still throw the ball around now and again."
"Yeah, we'll still throw the ball around."
On the drive home, neither of us spoke. I don't know what I thought. I didn't hate him; I wasn't really even angry. But things would never be the same. He'd never be as big in my eyes as he'd been, never take up so much of my world.
After that he still gave me advice on technique and strategy, and we still tossed the ball around the park, though we didn't do that as much. The change wasn't in what we did but in what we didn't say. He never again described the big plays he'd made on the football field, and I never again asked him about them. They were all in the past, buried. It was unspoken, but we both understood that the games that mattered were the games yet to be played—my games.
PART TWO
1
So much had happened over that weekend that I forgot how angry Rooney had been until I returned to the practice field Monday. I considered telling him that I was going to stop smarting off, that I was different from my dad, but what good are words? I'd show him.
That practice, I pushed myself to outperform everyone, especially Drew Carney. Running drills, agility drills, strength drills—I took him on. If he made it through the tires in twenty seconds, then I was going to do it in nineteen. If he managed thirty pushups, then I was doing thirty-one. If he ran the four-forty in fifty-five seconds, then I was clocking fifty-four. After two hours, Rooney blew his whistle. "Good practice, men," he called out. He turned to me, and our eyes locked. "Very good practice."
As I walked toward the parking lot, Drew fell in stride beside me. "That was fun," he said.
"What?" I said.
"You trying hard like that—it made practice better."
"Yeah, I guess it did," I said.
"A bunch of us play flag football at Crown Hill Park in the afternoons. A kid named DeShawn Free is always there and usually there are some other guys who go to Shilshole High. You should come around."
***
After I ate lunch, I walked to Crown Hill Park. They had even teams, but Drew made the other guys make room for me, even though it meant going six on five. I had a great time that day, and after that I played flag football with those guys every chance I got. The games turned out to be more competitive than our league games. About half the guys were on the Shilshole High varsity, and they were determined to push me and Drew and DeShawn around, which made us determined not to be pushed around. We kicked our effort up a notch, and pretty soon Drew and I started clicking together. Handoffs, pitchouts, swing passes—you name it and we were right in sync. It was as if we'd been playing together all our lives.
That harmony should have carried over and made us tough to beat in Pop Warner, but the league has a rule requiring the coach to play everyone on the team for at least one quarter. Most of our second-stringers were new to football, and it showed.
When Drew was at quarterback and I was at running back, we'd march down the field, slicing through the defense. But at the start of the third quarter, Rooney pulled us, and we'd stand on the sidelines and watch the other team demolish our second string. Sometimes when we came back into the game at the start of the fourth quarter we'd rekindle the fire and win. But lots of the time we'd never find our rhythm. Drew would throw an interception or I'd fumble and our opponents would sneak away with a victory.
After we'd lost some game we should have won, my dad would be stone-faced, his eyes angry. That was okay with Drew and me, because that's exactly how we felt. But Drew's dad would come over, a big smile on his face, and talk about how exciting the game had been. "Sportsmanship, that's what is important, boys. The winning and the losing don't matter."
He was hard to listen to, because it did matter, and not just for our league record. We cared about that, but we were also looking a year ahead. Off and on during the season, a man had shown up at our games. For a quarter, sometimes even a half, he'd stand right next to Mr. Rooney, talking to him and then writing things in a notebook.
Brad Middleton, one of the high school guys we played flag football with, filled us in. "Tall guy, right? Going bald. That's Mr. Trahane. He's Shilshole High's defensive backfield coach. He's scouting you. You impress him, and you'll get an invitation to spring football, which means you have a solid chance to make the varsity. You don't catch his eye, you won't get invited, and that means the JV team." Middleton paused. "Believe me, you really don't want to be on the JV team. The coach sucks, the practice field sucks, the refs suck, and the team sucks."
Once I knew the score, every game became a tryout. Win or lose, I'd ask my dad if Trahane had been there. If the answer was yes, I'd pepper him with questions. How had I done while he was watching? Did I mess anything up? What did he think Trahane wrote down about me?
"Just keep working hard, like you're doing," my dad would say. "You're not going to get the invite because of one play, and you're not going to lose it because of one play. You try to do too much, and you'll fall flat on your face."
2
We finished the season with a 5-5 record, just out of the playoffs. When Pop Warner ended, it was hard to fill the days. School took up six hours. After school Drew and I would go to Crown Hill Park to play football, but each day was shorter and darker than the one before, and fewer guys were showing up. Weekends were a little better. The field was growing soft from the rain, so we'd play tackle football in the mud. The grosser it was, the better. We'd go home, get cleaned up, and then either Drew would come to my house or I'd go to his. We'd hang out together playing video games and foosball.
Over Christmas break my grandparents came up from San Francisco and stayed with us for five days. They're my mom's parents, and they
're nice enough, but they still treat me like I'm five years old. I'd turned fifteen just before they arrived, and they insisted on taking me out for a Happy Meal at McDonald's. After that Grandpa Leo and I went to Interbay to play miniature golf. The wind was howling so hard, I thought it was going to knock Grandpa Leo into one of the windmills, but he kept telling me how much fun he was having and how glad he was to be visiting and how much I had grown. Christmas Day I got the regular stuff plus my own cell phone. "It's a pay-as-you-go plan, Mick," my mom said. "Strictly for emergencies."
The first week of January, my dad was offered a different time slot at the station. He'd be working with Lion Terry, not Ben Braun, and his hours would be from four in the afternoon to nine at night. My mom wanted him to take it. "You know what I think of Ben Braun," she said.
"Lion would be easier to work with," he said, "and I wouldn't have to get up at four in the morning anymore." He looked at me. "But I won't be around much in the evenings. The house will be empty when you come home."
"That's okay," I said. "I just come in and go right out. You know that."
He pulled on his ear a little. "How about football? How are you going to get to games?"
"I can get a ride with Drew's dad anytime," I said. "He's told me that."
"Take the job," my mom said. "Please."
He smiled. "Ben Braun is not going to be happy."
My mom laughed. "One more reason to take it."
3
January, February, March—all through those months I felt as if I were stuck in mud. Guys had stopped showing up at the park, so the flag football games had fallen apart; the days were short, rainy, and cold; and I was sick of Lowell Middle School, sick of the teachers and the buildings and the kids.
The only person I wasn't sick of was Drew. He and I had had our eyes fixed on spring football since the day Middleton had clued us in about Trahane. I thought about spring football all the time, and I'd bet anything Drew did, too, but through those months we never talked about it. May seemed a long way off, and neither of us wanted to jinx anything. When April came, though, spring football was all we talked about.
I was sure Drew would be invited, and I told him so. He had size and strength, and he was a natural leader. Even in the flag football games, playing with older kids, Drew took command of the huddle. Once I'd gone through all the reasons that he was a lock to get invited, he'd do the same for me. "You've got speed and power, Mick. And you know the game so much better than anyone. You see things other people don't. I wish my dad had taught me half of what you've learned from yours. You've got the football I.Q. of Einstein."
When I was with him, when we were talking, I'd feel good about my chances, but when I was alone, all I could remember were the plays I'd screwed up.
It was the last Monday in April. I was just about to head off to Crown Hill Park when the phone rang. I picked it up, pencil in hand, ready to take a message for my mom or my dad. "This is Mr. Downs, head football coach at Shilshole High," the voice said. "Is Mick Johnson at home?"
My heart was thumping. "This is Mick Johnson."
"Mick, Mr. Trahane watched your Pop Warner football team off and on in the fall. Maybe you were aware of that."
"Yeah," I said. "I mean, sort of." I stopped, confused.
"Well, Mr. Trahane tells me that you are a promising player. Mr. Rooney says your attitude and practice habits are good. We start spring football here at Shilshole High next week. I'd like you to participate. I want to be clear, though. This invitation doesn't mean you are on the varsity. It just means you are working with the varsity. How's that sound?"
"That sounds great," I said, my mouth so dry, I could hardly talk. "That sounds tremendous."
He laughed. "All right, then. You know where the school is?"
"Sure, I know. What time?"
"Three-fifteen. See you there."
"Coach Downs," I said, before he could hang up, "did Mr. Trahane tell you about Drew Carney? He was our quarterback, and—"
"Yes, I know all about Drew. I'll be calling him today, too."
I hung up the phone and sat, staring straight ahead.
I was going to get my chance.
4
That glow lasted all the way to Sunday night. But by the time I went to bed, a tiny bit of fear had crept into my head, and that fear grew and grew until by Monday afternoon it had crowded out everything else. My dad had warned me that it was going to happen. "You're going to feel lost," he said Sunday night. "You're going to feel like you don't belong. Just stay mentally tough."
I walked down to Shilshole High with Drew, but that didn't help because he was as nervous as I was. We had trouble finding the locker room, and once we found it, we were afraid to ask where to get our equipment. Some of the players looked about twenty times bigger than the biggest guy we'd faced. A few had beards; more had piercings; almost all had tattoos. It wasn't a little jump we were taking; it was a huge jump. I was so nervous that I must have seen DeShawn Free six times before I registered who he was. "Good luck," I said to him. He nodded back but didn't say a word.
Brad Middleton, the guy who'd clued us in about Trahane, came over. "I thought both you guys would be here," he said, a big smile on his face. "Let me show you where you get your stuff."
I thought I'd feel better once I stepped onto the field, but I didn't. I'd listen intently to every single word Downs or any of the assistant coaches said, but not one would actually penetrate. That whole first day of practice, I was ten seconds behind everybody in everything. I butchered simple drills such as running through the tires and hitting the blocking sleds—drills I'd done a thousand times. My hands were like stones; it seemed as if I dropped every single pitchout that came my way. Five other guys besides me were trying out for running back, and I was last in everything. By five o'clock it was so bad that I went light in the head and was afraid I was going to faint, and I thought that would be the end of it, that I'd never be able to return. But somehow, some way, I got through the practice.
I'd seen Drew off and on during those two hours, but for most of the practice we were in different groups. When I met up with him afterward, he had his head down. "I sucked," he said. "And you know what the worst thing is? I'm going to go home and my dad will tell me that it's perfectly okay if I'm on JV, that the important thing is that I have fun. At least you won't have to listen to that."
He was right about that. My dad drank his coffee while I ate breakfast Tuesday morning. I told him most of what had gone wrong, but not all. "Nothing to worry about," he said. "Put yesterday out of your mind and start fresh this afternoon. A bad first practice is pretty typical and your coach knows it, but you can't string a bunch of them together. You've got to show him you belong."
I must have looked as down as I felt. How could I show the coach I belonged when I didn't think I did? My dad took another sip of coffee. "Let's get you a plan, Mick. Something specific. How many running backs were there?"
"Six," I said.
"Downs will probably carry three running backs, maybe four. To be safe you've got to work yourself up to number three. Today, look for the weakest guy in the group. Stand next to him every time you can. Try to do all your individual drills just before or just after him. Who's the number one guy, the starter?"
"Matt Drager."
"Don't ever follow him; let somebody else eat his dust. Once you're sure the coach knows you're better than the number six guy, do the same thing to number five. Pick them off, like ducks in a row. One at a time ... boom, boom, boom. You've got three weeks to get ahead of three guys. You can do it."
Everything was easier the second day. We got our gear right away and were out on the field early. When we broke into groups by position, I steered clear of Matt Drager. The other guys, they were the ones I had to beat, starting with Nathan Dorsey. On Tuesday I worked it so that I was side by side with Dorsey as much as possible. I didn't worry about anybody but him. With my focus narrowed, most of the panic was gone. I just played. By Thursda
y I was sure the coaches knew I was better than Dorsey, so then I went after Aaron Cunningham, making sure we were shoulder to shoulder all practice long.
Friday after practice Coach Downs posted the depth charts for the first time. Drew was number three at quarterback; I was number four among the running backs. There was a chance we were in already, and we both knew it. But we couldn't let ourselves slip back one spot, and the best way not to slip is to push forward.
The guys we passed, they didn't like us at all. They'd glower at us in the locker room and trash-talk us, saying how we were punk eighth-graders and they'd take care of us yet. But you can't back down just because somebody is older than you, and we didn't.
After the last practice, two sheets of paper were posted outside the gym. Before he'd let us look, Downs called us together. "Those lists over there—one says varsity and the other says junior varsity. But don't go thinking that any of this is set in stone. You guys on JV—if you play well and some varsity player is dogging it, I'll bring you up in a heartbeat." He paused. "All right, then. I'm not having any mad dash over there. Juniors, you go first. Find your name and your name only, then go into the locker room."
We were last—Drew and me and DeShawn and a couple of other guys from different middle schools. I ran my hand down the varsity list and saw my name. I kept looking, even though I wasn't supposed to, and there was Drew's.
"I can't find my name on either list," DeShawn said, panicked.
"You're there." Drew pointed, shoving him and laughing. "Varsity. We all made varsity."
I called my dad as soon as I got home. "I knew it," he said. "I knew it. Where do you stand, number two or number three?"
"He didn't post depth charts. Just rosters."
"Come on, Mick. You know damn well where you stand."
He was right. I'd passed them all, except for Drager.
